Interlude
by PrizJefra
Summary: "A kiss, John, a kiss!" John Watson asks Sherlock to marry him and gets just a little bit more than what he bargained for.


**Quick Author's Note: I named this 'story' Interlude because it's structured more like a dialogue with descriptive interludes that appear every so often, so don't expect flowing paragraphs and super long narratives. Also, I feel like Johnlock's world is so filled with movement and criminals and the effects of Sherlock's eccentric behavior that when you pause the craziness (thus an interlude) and look at the life that they live and the relationship that they have outside of that you'll find (in my mind, at least) a little something like this.**

"Perhaps if you'd just consider-"

"I've done enough considering, John." Silence and then, "You know my answer."

"Look – look, Sherlock stop Power Pouting – perhaps if you'd stop acting as if this were a case-"

A rustle of velvet blue fabric. An annoyed glare. "Who said that I was?"

"I know you well enough. You treat everything like it's a case." Sherlock scoffed.

"Right, because in the few months that you've been my flat mate you've gotten to know me so well. John," he sat up and fixed John with a no-bullshit stare, "believe me when I say that you know absolutely _nothing_ about me…especially if you think that I'd say yes to your little proposition."

John sighed and stared at the rim of the coffee table or rather what used to be an antique treasure that was now covered in a homogeneous mixture of playing cards, petri dishes, newspaper clippings, and computer cords.

"You're right," his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again, "You're right, Sherlock. I don't know you. I don't know you at all. But – god, I know this is going to sound stupid," he rubbed his chin thoughtfully and forced himself to look away from the cluttered table. His eyes lighted upon the unused fireplace filled with tattered papers that Sherlock swore were more valuable than the prized ornate egg that he had 'borrowed' from a museum earlier that month. Anything, _anything _to avoid Sherlock's eyes although he knew it didn't make a difference. Sherlock always seemed to be looking right through him even when they made eye contact. "I'd like to. I'd really, really like to get to know you, Sherlock, in more than just a…companion-like way."

Another scoff. "Please. If I've heard it once I've heard it a thousand times from you, John…actually, make that eleven-"

"-twelve times."

"Sorry?"

"I've asked you to marry me twelve times, including this time."

"I've only counted eleven…when was the last time?"

"When we jumped off of that one building when we were chasing the Russian serial killer. Do you remember? No, probably not. The wind might have ripped the words from my mouth."

"So you're telling me that you asked me to marry you in midair?"

"Yep."

"My god, John, you're a madman."

"Oh, I'm the madman? I'm not the one who keeps decapitated heads in the refrigerator."

"_Head_, John, it was a single head."

"And that's exactly your problem."

The two men glanced at each other awkwardly. Sherlock quickly turned away but not before John saw the small smile that flit across his lips. He too looked away, trying to suppress his own laughter but couldn't help giggling at the ridiculousness of it all. He heard Sherlock laughing in his throaty, muffled way which then set him off completely. After five minutes the two men found themselves holding their stomachs and wiping tears from their eyes.

"John Watson, you really must be out of your mind."

"Don't talk to yourself, John. It only proves the point."

"What? You do it all the time!"

"Sometimes I need professional advice."

John laughed. He rubbed his head uncomfortable. A grim smile appeared on his lips. "Who's madder here? The man proposing to the madman or the madman who keeps decapitated heads in the refrigerator?" A shaky exhalation rose from his chest and dispersed in the air. He closed his eyes.

"Will it satisfy you?"

"Will what satisfy me, Sherlock?"

"A kiss,"

"A…I'm sorry, what? A kiss?"

"Yes."

"A _kiss_?"

"…_yes_."

"A…kiss?"

"_A __**kiss**__, John, a __**kiss**__!"_

"You mean the thing where two people put their mouths together and actually-" Sherlock advanced upon him, a curious glint in his eye. He stopped right in front of him; a tower of black marble and glinting cream enamel. John swallowed and had to force his next words past his lips, "-and kiss?"

"Yes. Do you want me to do it or not?"

"Sherlock, but why-" Sherlock moved to the edge of the seat and leaned against the worn arm, staring down at John threateningly. John suddenly realized just how intimidating the man could be.

"Shut up and answer my question."

"…well I suppose-"

A pause. A breath. Sherlock teeters on the tip of indecision as well as the arm of Watson's favorite chair. He leans in, unsure and just a bit uncomfortable, and John moves forward just a bit too eagerly. Their lips almost meet (he can feel John's moist breath on his upper lip) but then he impulsively pulls back. Their eyes are locked still and he can see disappointment and – what was _that_ emotion? Fear? - blooming behind Watson's dilated pupils. _This is stupid_, he tells himself as John sits still, his posture tense, his lips slightly parted. As Sherlock had correctly guessed, he was waiting for an answer, the Answer, Sherlock's answer but was beginning to feel as if he might not ever know. The newspaper on his lap slips to the ground, causing an explosion of sorts of wrinkled paper and grey letters. _This is stupid, you're stupid John Watson_, John tells himself when suddenly Sherlock leans forward and brushes his lips against the corner of his mouth. It was an awkward 'kiss,' the most awkward that John had ever experienced, yet he felt a tidal wave of emotions – most of them pleasurable and intoxicating – flood over his body. He turns his head slightly to the side and takes Sherlock's bottom lip between his own, wanting so badly to take and be taken further, much further into the dangerous fantasy which up until now had been nothing but an unthinkable improbability. He loves the feel of the warmth that emanates from the flawless patch of skin exposed beneath Sherlock's midnight blue collar, the smooth perfection of the fine cheekbones so close to his own, the large hands pressed against the cushion above his shoulders. Slowly, daringly, he reaches a shaking hand up and only then realizes that he had no idea what to do with it. Should he place it on Sherlock's shoulders? His back? His neck? He holds his hand aloft in midair, unsure of what to do, unsure of what to think when, just like that, Sherlock pulls away.

"So that's what if feels like."

"What what feels like?"

"Nothing, John."

"…have you never been kissed before? Sh-sherlock! Can you stop playing the violin for one moment?!"

"I really don't think that that's any of your business."

"Well, it was obvious."

"….what?"

"I'm just saying…it felt as if you've never kissed anyone before."

"…oh, come on. Were you expecting to see stars or something?"

"SHERLOCK PUT THE VIOLIN DOWN!"

"…"

"please…"

"…"

"…thank you. All I'm saying is that I was expecting a little bit more from the man who dissects the core of human psychology on a daily basis. You kiss as if you've never seen lips before in your life." Speechless. He had rendered Sherlock speechless.

"I do not," the man finally hissed.

"Do, too."

"Do n-"

John had always been impressed by Sherlock's unexpected bursts of energy and animalistic agility. That's why he wasn't surprised when he suddenly found his face cradled between Sherlock's palms and his lips smashed against the Consulting Detective's, only slightly dizzy. This time Sherlock did kiss him, his mouth working surprisingly sexy wonders upon John's mouth. Anybody else would have called the kiss dry, erratic but neither man cared at the moment. This time it was John who pulled back, a small grin snaking onto his face.

"What? Still bad?"

"No," John gasped. He laughed. "Air,"

Sherlock grinned. There was a knock on the door and after a moment's pause Mrs. Hudson stepped in.

"Oo-oo. I thought I heard – Sherlock, why are you mistreating the furniture?"

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, well I was just wondering if you could –"

"He's in the second floor broom closet of the Happy Pup. You might want to give…twenty seconds after knocking before bursting in through door. Oh, and yes you've met the woman before. She worked in your garden about a month ago. Good day, Mrs. Hudson."

A door slammed.

"So was that my answer, then?"

"Was what?"

"The kiss. Am I supposed to deduce some hidden meaning from it or something?"

"You? Deduce? Don't insult me, John." John shrugged and bent down to pick up his newspaper. He rustled it undecidedly. Should he read about mutating turnips or the woman with the baby who had been shot? He cleared his throat and settled on the article on the woman with baby but found that he could not bring himself to focus, so distracted was he by the residual emotions left over by the kiss. He found himself gazing thoughtfully at Sherlock's back over the rim of the newspaper. The man picked up his violin again and played one long, drawn out note. No, this was not Sherlock. This was a greyish silhouette framed in the grand window that blocked out the sun and played haunting albeit amateur melodies on its greyish instrument.

"It means that I'll consider it." The Greyish Silhouette said.

"Consider my proposal?"

"Yes."

"All that just for a consideration?" A sudden kaleidoscope of high pitched sound and frantic squeaking filled the room. John covered his ears. "SHERLOCK PUT IT DOWN!"

"What more do you want from me, John?"

"Well…I suppose I've gotten this far. Most people hardly even get a consideration from you." Sherlock smiled. "I just…want to be sure that I'm not going to end up like one of those people. I want to be sure that you won't just push my offer to the back of your head and forget all about it. Can you promise me that?"

"Maybe."

John smiled. A 'maybe' was as good as a 'yes' from Sherlock.


End file.
